by C. K. Brooke
The wick had already taken to the match’s flame before Anton had fallen. At their feet, his brother released a pained groan, stretching out his spidery hand.
The dynami was rapidly burning down. Bos remembered what Anton had said. There was only one thing to do.
“Jump overboard!”
MACMILLAN LAUNCHED OVER THE RAIL with Bos. They landed with a tremendous splash into the sea. The blow against the water’s surface made Macmillan’s pounding head throb harder as a fresh wave of nausea washed over him. Coughing up saltwater, he and Bos swam, placing as much distance as possible between themselves and the condemned boat.
Macmillan’s head pulsed and he vomited, but still, they continued. His muscles burned and tears streamed down his face when a deafening crack thundered through the air, followed by an explosive boom. He and Bos dove underwater, forcing air from their nostrils and covering their heads as wood and shrapnel rained down into the sea around them.
Coming up for air, they saw that Pascale’s boat was no more than a burning skeleton, disseminating on the gentle waves.
Macmillan wept hopelessly. His tears fell for Dainy, Pascale, even for Jon Cosmith. Along with Visidair, their three companions were now gone.
“Keep swimming,” Bos commanded him.
“To the shore?” Macmillan’s voice quaked. He seriously questioned whether he’d be able to make it all the way to land.
“No.” Bos pointed. “To that boat.”
DAINY SAT IN THE HULL, shivering. Her hands and ankles were bound with rope, a kerchief gagging her. Panicking only caused her to struggle more with her breath, so she forced herself to breathe steadily through her nostrils.
There were no words to express her hatred for Jon Cosmith. She glared up at him through the darkness, never breaking her gaze, although he’d since turned his back to her.
A heart-stopping crack rang through the air, and Dainy jerked her head in its direction. With a second bang, Uncle Pascale’s fishing boat, sailing some distance behind them, exploded into flames.
Dainy shrieked through her kerchief. Agitated, she rocked back and forth, struggling to free herself, until Jon hurried over and crouched down. He untied the cloth from her mouth and, having withdrawn his razorblade from his satchel, began to saw the rope from her wrists.
“I hate you!” Her voice was hoarse from the kerchief. “You let them all die!” She coughed with sobs as her hands came unbound.
Jon looked atypically worn. There were circles of sleeplessness beneath his eyes, and his usually lustrous hair fell limp. He watched his work, slicing the rope with his razor. “I did what I had to,” he said stiffly, “to save you.”
Dainy had never felt so numb in all of her days as she watched the boat burn on the water. She wanted to curl up and fall asleep, never to awaken again. “They’re gone,” she whispered, eyes brimming.
“But we are not,” said Jon.
“You don’t care that we’ve just witnessed my uncle and those innocent men’s lives blown up before our eyes?”
Jon gave her a severe look. “That is life, Dainy,” he snapped, with a note of condescension she rather disliked. “You are young, and have not suffered loss. You will learn.”
Dainy stared at him as he loosened the rope at her ankles. But she didn’t move. “I’ve not suffered loss?” she repeated incredulously.
Jon did not raise his head.
“Did I not lose my entire family—parents, brothers—to a barbaric execution? Did I not lose a nation, a home, an empire?”
At last, he spoke, eyes downcast. “But how easily I forget. Please forgive my thoughtless presumption,” he mumbled with uncharacteristic humility.
Dainy watched him. Neither spoke.
The man helped her to her feet. Together they stood, watching the smoldering flames on the waves.
Could they really be gone? Dainy couldn’t bring herself to believe it. She was in denial. It couldn’t be—just couldn’t be.
Jon placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, and she considered flinging it off. But in light of his apology and the devastating scene before them, she left it.
“You see now, why I did it?” he said quietly. “That would’ve been you, too, gone with the flames, had I permitted you to remain aboard.”
“I’m not a fool, Jon Cosmith.” Dainy sniffled, raising her sleeve to her nose. “I know you only saved me for the reward.” She gave him a cold look, eyes glistening. “The others are gone now. Dead. And the prize, by default, is yours. Did you get what you wanted, then? Are you satisfied?”
“I never wanted this for them.” He looked down. “This was not my doing.”
In disbelief, Dainy beheld the smoking debris as it rolled on the waves, fresh tears falling freely down her cheeks.
THE SCENE BEFORE THEM WAS bitter, and Jon Cosmith felt an unsettling sickness in his chest at the sight of the charred frame of Pascale’s boat.
He’d had no idea Visidair would be using dynami against them. He’d thought he was leaving the others to combat the spy by hand or blade, believing deep down that, with three against one, their success could be likely. But he’d not been expecting this.
Although they’d not necessarily been his friends, Cosmith couldn’t help but feel disturbed, now that they were gone. He brushed his thumb absently against Dainy’s shoulder when he noticed shadows floating toward them, encroaching faster than any of the drifting debris.
Dainy gave a start. “I think someone’s out there.” She darted to the stern. “Listen.” She cupped her ear to the sky.
He listened. It sounded like the cries of men, growing louder.
“Ahoy! Men overboard!”
“Jon,” trilled Dainy, hopping up and down on her feet. “They live!”
Cosmith squinted in their direction. “It could be a trap, Dainy,” he warned her.
“Nay, look—there’s Bos!”
She was right. The unmistakable shape of the giant loomed toward them, with someone else swimming behind.
Cosmith glanced sideways at Dainy. He knew what he had to do, and the girl would have it no other way. Heading to the mast, he went to work, letting out the sheets until the sails luffed and flapped. Their small boat slowed to a crawl, allowing the swimmers to catch up.
MACMILLAN DIDN’T THINK HE COULD swim any longer. White speckles splayed his vision and his head pounded. Still, Bos urged him onward, until they caught up with the pursued vessel. Either his depth perception was failing him, or the boat had stopped to await them.
“Ahoy,” bellowed Bos again. Macmillan was no longer able to use his voice without the threat of becoming sick again.
Until he heard a high voice cry back: “Ahoy!”
Macmillan willed his eyes to stay open. “Dainy,” he croaked.
He and Bos grasped the vessel’s hull. A fey face peeked over the side, black hair tucked behind her ears, and Macmillan’s heart sang.
“Mac!” she bleated joyously, reaching down for him, but her vessel was too tall. Their outstretched fingertips barely met. She turned, beseeching someone Macmillan could not see. “We must help them!”
A second figure stepped up beside her, wrapping an arm possessively around her shoulders. Macmillan could make out Jon Cosmith’s tired grin in the moonlight, strangely absent of its usual smugness.
“It seems the tables have turned, gentlemen,” he said lightly, as if commenting on the time of night. “As I recall, when I was in your shoes, standing in the hull of a sinking boat, you men insisted on toying with me and exploiting me out of twenty-four pieces of gold before helping me board.”
At this, Dainy shot him an inquisitive look.
“Please,” panted Bos. “We’re sorry, Cosmith, but we’ve no time to waste. Macmillan has suffered a blow to the head.” He glanced at Macmillan, adding, “It is a miracle he’s made it this far.”
<
br /> “Because I am a far more benevolent soul than either of you,” teased Cosmith, “I won’t make you wait, but will lower my rope at once.”
True to his word for once, he draped a rope starboard, allowing Macmillan, followed by Bos, to climb up. Lost for balance, Macmillan collapsed onto the deck as soon as he reached it.
“Oh!” Dainy fell to her knees beside him, collecting his soaking head in her hands. “What happened?” Macmillan didn’t resist, but allowed the girl to stroke his face as he reclined in her lap.
Bos hung his head. “My brother struck him.”
“Your brother?” Dainy sounded confused.
“Bos’s brother works for the New Republic,” mumbled Macmillan, trying to articulate the words as best he could. “They’ve been trying to assassinate us.”
Dainy gasped. “Why?”
None one spoke. Macmillan closed his eyes again.
“Because they are cowards,” said Bos. “They fear what you can do to the Republic, should you be found.”
Dainy stiffened. “I have done nothing to anyone’s Republic.”
“We know, Dainy,” said Cosmith quietly.
There was a stretch of silence, until Dainy gave a start. “But where is Uncle Pascale? Will he be catching up with us soon?”
Silence again, and this time, Macmillan’s heart truly ached for her.
“Eludaine,” said Bos slowly, although his tone conveyed everything the poor girl feared. Macmillan could already feel her trembling. “Pascale…he did not make it.”
Dainy shivered. Although his head drummed, Macmillan lifted it to look into her doleful eyes. Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around her.
“My last words to him,” she whispered tremulously, returning his embrace, “were that he was no uncle of mine.”
“There, there.” Macmillan rocked her. “We all knew you didn’t mean it.”
He glanced up to see Cosmith watching them, his nose twitching in irritation. Macmillan met his eyes, and squeezed the duchess more tightly.
“What about Priya?” Dainy abruptly broke apart from him, her face tear-streaked. “Her heart will be broken, and it’s all my fault!”
“No. It’s mine.” Bos folded his great arms, looking up to the sky.
“What happened to Visidair?” asked Cosmith.
When Bos didn’t reply, Macmillan said, “He’s dead.”
“Well,” decided Cosmith, “with all of us on board, we must head west, for the forest’s coast.”
Dainy looked up. “Why?”
“Because this boat is designed for two people, not double that.” He headed for the sails. “It cannot sail us all the way to Häffstrom. Besides, there aren’t enough supplies on board for the four of us.”
Bos barred his way. “You seem to have planned this out very carefully, Cosmith, for this boat to be fitted and stocked for just two passengers.”
Cosmith glared at him. “How dare you? This was your brother’s vessel, not mine. I had a choice whether to stay aboard and let Eludaine fall into your brother’s murderous hands, or sail her away in rescue. I should hope you’d have done the same, had you been in my position, Boslon.”
“Perhaps,” said Bos darkly. “Although I’d have done so out of loyalty to the royal family, and not for a mere payoff.”
Dainy got to her feet. “Stop,” she commanded them. “Like it or not, Jon saved us all tonight. What would we have done, had he not captured this boat?” She cocked her head at Macmillan. “I doubt Mac here could’ve swum all the way to shore with his injury.”
For some reason, Macmillan’s gaze dropped to her wrists, where strange markings marred them. “Let me see your hands,” he mumbled, taking them before she could object. He examined her skin, tracing along the bumpy indentations.
He looked down at the floor. Lying at their feet were coils of sliced rope and a crumpled kerchief. Mind racing, he arranged the evidence together until, before he knew it, he was throttling Cosmith at the collar.
Dainy yelped.
“Bind and gag the duchess, Cosmith? Are you out of your mind?” Macmillan shouted in his face.
“Let go of him!” cried Dainy. “Can you not see he’s struggling to breathe?”
Cosmith gasped for air, but Macmillan wouldn’t let go. The man had done the unthinkable, and Macmillan was livid.
“What in hell is the matter with you?” Macmillan raged. “You kidnapped Dainy and left the rest of us to die, all so that you could be the one to bring her to Gatspierre and win your precious gold?”
“Please,” Dainy begged. “He can’t breathe!”
Cosmith tried to speak, but his cheeks were turning blue.
“How do I know that you and Visidair didn’t plan out this whole arrangement together, plotting to split the prize between you, once he eliminated your competition?” Macmillan’s head spun. He could no longer contain his fury. “A bit peculiar, would you not say, that this quest began with sixty-three men, and has now dwindled to just us?”
“I swear,” Cosmith gasped, “on my life…that is…a false…accusation.”
“Let go of him!” Dainy screamed.
Macmillan glared at her. “And you, defending him!”
At her shocked expression, Macmillan remembered himself. He loosened his grip. Cosmith stepped back, wheezing and massaging his throat.
Dainy clung to the other man’s side, fawning over him worriedly. Macmillan stared as she gazed at Cosmith, whispering to him as though the pair were the only passengers aboard. His stomach twisted enviously. “Make up your mind then, Dainy,” he growled. “Me, or him?”
Her expression only hardened. “I have just lost my uncle,” she said coldly. “Please, let me mourn in peace.”
She stepped away, keeping her head down, and lowered herself in a removed corner, hugging her knees. She shut her eyes and turned her back to them.
A tarp lay folded on the bench, large enough to cover the whole vessel. Bos went over to it and draped it over Dainy as a blanket.
Macmillan and Cosmith glared at each other. Cosmith was the first to break his gaze, turning to adjust the sails, steering their little boat west.
DAINY AWOKE TO A CACOPHONY of birdcalls. She opened her eyes and gazed about, realizing they were no longer sailing, but anchored along a deserted coast. There was very little sand before the shore disappeared into nothing but trees, more trees than Dainy had ever seen in her life.
Her back ached from lying against a wooden wall all night, yet she was warm beneath the tarp that Bos had placed over her.
Mac was asleep at her feet. In the morning light, she could see the dried blood that had trickled from his scalp. She held a hand over his mouth to ensure that he still breathed. Feeling his hot breath pushing and fading against her palm, she slumped back, relieved.
The endless chirruping of all variation of birds filled the air, and Dainy wondered how Mac could continue to sleep so soundly amidst the din. Straightening, she craned her neck to the shore, searching for Jon and Bos. She waited, watching as the water lay eerily still beneath the smothering, humid air.
When the heat became too oppressive, Dainy slid out from beneath the leather tarp, and looked down at her legs. She was still dressed in her simple green skirts and white tunic she’d been wearing—was it only just a day ago?—aboard Uncle Pascale’s boat. It appeared Jon was the only one who’d had the opportunity to bring his belongings in his satchel. For Dainy, there had been no time to fetch her things.
And then, the recollection hit her like a blow to the chest: Uncle Pascale was dead.
She thought about Aunt Priya. How cruel that he’d been taken from her before they could even see their wedding day. And Paxi would be mourning a brother. Dainy was too grief-stricken to cry. Why had she let Pascale go with her?
Overwhelmed with regret, she got up and went to the su
pply bench. Looking for something to distract from her sorrow, she opened it. Inside, she noticed a familiar brown rim. Recognizing its velvety texture, she lifted it out.
She turned it over in her hands, vastly confused. What was Jon’s hat doing there, in the assassin’s vessel?
Unless….
She began to feel sick. How careless she had been to throw his hat overboard into the water, leaving a trail of evidence for someone to follow. Then again, at the time, Dainy had not known anyone was tailing them.
Still, was this hat the culprit, the cause of her uncle’s killer finding them last night?
She knew there was no other answer. The guilt suffocated her. Unmoving, she stood, blank with sorrow, until she heard voices in the woods. But she couldn’t bring herself to turn. With each passing moment, she was feeling more responsible for Pascale’s death.
“Time to rise,” called Jon. He appeared energetic, although not particularly cheerful. “Chop chop. A storm is headed for the coast, and I do not much feel like getting wet.”
Dainy looked to the horizon. Of course. The stillness of the waves, the pale sky already hampered by a mist of clouds, were the telltale signs of an upcoming storm.
“C’mon, Mac.” She bent to shake his shoulder. “Up you get.”
He stirred. “Ach,” he breathed, rubbing his head.
Dainy frowned. “It still hurts?”
“Are you two coming, or what?” Jon smacked a walking stick against the hull with impatience. “We haven’t all day.” He glanced anxiously up at the sky.
Dainy took the cowman’s hat. Meanwhile, Bos rolled the tarp into a cylinder. “No reason to leave this behind,” he said. “We might have use for it.”
They hopped out of the vessel and followed Jon into the woods, where a small fire and some roasted meat awaited them. Dainy’s stomach growled, but her sadness prevented her from feeling hungry. Forlorn, she merely nibbled at her food.
When the others extinguished the fire, she approached Jon. “I found this,” she mumbled, unable to look him in the eye.
